Tell Us If It Hurts
by EternallyDisappointed
Summary: A different way it could have ended. Captured by Blackwatch, Alex Mercer is being studied by Gentek. Specifically, they are trying to provoke his adrenaline surge ability. It will only end in blood.


"So," Dr. Kane asked, rhetorically, almost cheerfully, "how much of a beating can you take before your adrenaline surge kicks in?"

Alex Mercer's mouth was full of cotton and a wide leather strap prevented him from spitting it out. When he didn't answer, Dr. Kane patted his cheek. "That's all right. I doubt you have a reliable system of measurement anyway."

Crucified to the table by bands of steel at the wrists and shins and forehead, there was no room for even the claws. For even the small amount of comfort Alex had popped the infected vision. The room had gone grey and yellow, fuzzy around the edges, and Dr. Kane glowed faintly.

"There's no reason for you to be awake for this." Though his face showed no emotion, a tiny spark of hope lit in the back of Alex's mind. Almost immediately it was snuffed back to the darkness. "So if you feel like going back to sleep, feel free."

"We're ready when you are, Doctor."

"Excellent. Let's begin."

The guard appeared briefly in the lower hemisphere of Alex's field of vision, and the table slid back into the MRI machine.

"Oh, and Dr. Mercer?"

He gritted his teeth, flickered his eyes down and barely saw Dr. Kane's face.

"Do let us know if it hurts."

Alex's mouth was too dry. Tongue tangled in the nest of cotton. Barely noticing the hiss of the gas, he did notice the pangs, the familiar jolts of pain as the health drained from him. The tips of his ears, his fingers, his nose, turned icy. The pain centered in his stomach and spread in waves up through his bones. Along his shoulder blades. Down his arms.

Holding his breath did nothing; the air was in his lungs before he knew what it contained. In his mind he saw the steady ticking of his life, marching down to zero. His muscles tense, even his stiff creaking fingers, and ate even more poisoned oxygen. He struggled to call up the blade, but the pressure on his morphing arm was too great and his wrist shattered like glass. Biting down into the cotton, he managed to suppress the cry down to a groan.

In spite of the infected vision, the world faded to grey and then to black and white. As the adrenaline surged through his body, the pain momentarily ceased.

"Jesus," a staticky voice cried. "His amygdala just lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree!"

"That's it," Dr. Kane shouted back. "Cut the bloodtox! Get those fans going!"

He had seconds. With the critical mass pulsating inside him he had one chance for a single devastator. The tendrils were his last chance. He pulled at the broken wrist-maybe the shattered bones could slip through the restraints?-and when the invulnerability dissolved along with the mass his wrist exploded with pain. He bit down through the cotton, and his mouth began to fill with blood.

"I really should apologize," Dr. Kane was saying, but his voice was garbled, barely audible. "Bloodtox is a rather... inexact method of doing you harm."

The table was pulled out sharply. Clinging to the edge of life, Alex gagged on the sodden cotton.

"But what else could we do that wouldn't interfere with all this lovely machinery?" Through the fog, vibrating slightly with each beat of his heart, Alex could barely make out the doctor. "Now, I understand you regenerate rather quickly, so let's have a look at the data and prepare for round two!"

The blood, sharp and metallic on his tongue, was beginning to drain back down his throat. He struggled to swallow, to turn his head, and the butt of the guard's gun struck his head.

He blacked out for moments. Dr. Kane's words were unintelligible, but his tone became tense and commanding. Alex's connection to the world flickered again, only for a second, but as the sound came back he heard gunfire, dangerously close, and Dr. Kane shouting. When the vision returned he was aware only of the black and the white and the sharp contrast of red blazing past. Heller's hood. Once more the silence came.

When he awoke again the restraints were gone, only the leather strap remaining. The red was everywhere now-blood splattered on the silent walls, and Heller's eyes glowing in the shadows. He slid one finger between the straps and Alex's face, and it hardened into a claw. A gash opened along his cheek, nearly as bad as the one on his tongue, but the pressure on his face eased instantly. It took everything he had to roll onto his side and spit that bloody wad of cotton onto the floor. It hit with a sickening splat, and all he could do was lie there.

Then Heller's claws were there, sharp against his back, and he was dragged over the edge of the table. He was not alert enough to protect his crushed wrist.

"Get up," Heller growled.

His right hand would not support him. His left arm was too weak to move. He could do nothing but lie there and bleed.

"I said, get up." Heller's claws pinched down on his scalp and dragged him up head first and held him there on his knees. When he opened his mouth only blood came.

"I've waited a long time for this, you son of a bitch."

He could feel the tendrils wrapping up around his legs, circling his body, and he could only look up into Heller's face.

"Don't give me that look," Heller said, and the tendrils ripped him apart.


End file.
